


Mirror of my soul

by dustbunnyprophet



Series: Souls [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Amnesia, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Past Character Death, a bit of angst, but not too much, mentions of past violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:46:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4171692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbunnyprophet/pseuds/dustbunnyprophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Balin she is Gretchen, the most extraordinary woman he had ever laid eyes on.</p><p>For Dóta he is Klaus, a brilliant intellectual and devoted husband.</p><p>He looks for an explanation amongst the beliefs of distant people. She digs for the past she remembers amongst ancient ruins.<br/>Neither of them sees what is hidden in plain sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Till the end of time

**Author's Note:**

> A companion piece to ["Lonely souls" ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3863302/chapters/8631286) set several years before.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor update: 13/07/2015.

 

The house was draped in silence. Nothing could be heard but the faint sound of snoring coming from her husband. He was fast asleep on their older son's bed, leaning on the padded headboards and tightly wrapped in a tangle of covers and limbs which belonged to their children, deep in sleep like their father. Gretchen huffed a chuckle at the sight. She lingered for a moment in the doorway, gazing at the children's bedroom.

There were colourful posters covering the walls – Georg had a deep love for cartography despite being only five years old – and heaps of toys littered the fluffy carpet which was flanked by the boys' twin beds. Klaus and their sons were all asleep in the same bed, peaceful expressions on their slumbering faces. She had no doubt Georg and Markus had ended up draped over their father while they had been listening to their bedtime story. They did so nearly every night – snuggling close to him while Klaus told them the next episode of the tale. She smiled. They loved Klaus' stories. Even Markus, who was only two years old would listen with his big brown eyes impossibly wide, while his father spun his fantastic tales.

Gretchen herself had to admit that she often stopped in the hallway, listening in rapture as Klaus' ever calm voice conjured tales of heroes and kings, mythical beasts and strange creatures. Loyalty and honour. There was something in his stories that was familiar to her. Like an echo of the forgotten times only she remembered. The times she had once lived in. And her husband's voice would almost make her long for that first childhood she so seldom thought about – and the youth which had followed it briefly before its abrupt end. It would make Gretchen think about those days under the Mountain, temporarily closing the distance that facing a life that demanded all her attention had wedged between the dwarrowdam she had once been and the woman she was now.

Between a family and a thriving academic career, Gretchen had no time to ponder her past life and had long accepted it. It was a life long gone and she had chosen to look forward at what _this_ life would have in store for her, rather than living in her memories. She had not forgotten the world she had lived in but she had always been in constant motion – both in this and in the past life - and lingering on the waning memories of her past life – memories she could not share with anyone – was not her way of being.

Life went forward. She lived by the motto of loving the past but living the present. And while it was true that her husband's tales would make her smile wistfully, she would always end up shaking her head and going on with whatever task she had been doing.

She switched the light off in the boys' bedroom, with a curve of her lips that no doubt held a tinge of the wistfulness she felt.

Gretchen had made herself a new life. A better life. She _wished_ she could share the memories of the past one with someone - with her husband - but she couldn't. Klaus would no doubt think she was making fun of him if she were to tell him that many of his works on the belief of reincarnation were terribly accurate and factual. She grabbed the doorknob, smiling wryly at the irony of it all.

It didn't matter in the end.

She glanced at her sleeping family, faintly illuminated by the light filtering inside the room from the street, and decided not to wake Klaus. She had no doubt he was going to wake up in the middle of the night and hobble to their bed with a stiff back, but she was loath to disrupt his slumber, despite the clearly uncomfortable position he was sleeping in. He hadn't been resting much lately - too often tossing and turning in their bed and more than once she had awoken in the wee hours of the morning to find the bed beside her empty and Klaus standing by the window with his shoulders slumped, gazing at the distant darkness – and the sight of Klaus sleeping peacefully for a change was a welcome one. It eased her worries somewhat.

She closed the bedroom door and walked back through the silent house towards the kitchen where she had been cleaning up before she had gone to check on Markus and Georg. Everything was perfectly pristine in the kitchen and she opened the back-door, walking out into the pleasantly chill spring evening.

The faint sounds of voices and laughter carried from one of the neighbouring houses, and she shook her head at the noise in their usually quiet neighbourhood, but it was way too early to begrudge their neighbours some partying, especially on a Saturday night. Besides - she mused while she strolled down the carefully mowed lawn - she remembered her old family had indulged in much rowdier entertainment.

She felt a chuckle shake her from within at the memory of her brothers and cousins loudly laughing and singing until their throats were raw and their bellies full of both food and ale. Gretchen – or Dóta as she had been called back then - had been admittedly too young a dwarrowdam to fully partake in the feasts, but she still vividly recalled the festive atmosphere, the unrestrained enjoyment of watching her cousins walk over the table, her brothers jig between the tankards and all of them throw food at one another.

She shook her head stopping by the linden tree that grew in the far corner of their back garden. She sat down on the stone bench which was placed underneath the branches and felt a wave of sadness ripple within her. Sometimes she missed those days, brief as they had seemed.

It was curious, how relative time truly was. Thirty years could pass in the blink of an eye and yet a decade could last a lifetime. She closed her eyes, breathing the brisk air. Perhaps it was because this time around she had made every minute count, knowing how easily the thread of life could be severed. Or maybe it was because the human mind perceived time in a different manner that her dwarven one had, it was possible. Gretchen had no solution to that dilemma.

She was sure Klaus would have an answer were she to pose that question to him. After all her husband had the mindset of a philosopher - it was what made his work so unique and so appreciated even outside the strictly scientific milieu. Gretchen had no doubt that with a bit of good publicity he could become a best-selling author easily enough - she had even suggested it to him once or twice, but Klaus had always dismissed the ideas with a wave of his hand, telling her there were more important things than selling books. Gretchen still thought it was an idea that had possibilities, but she hadn't been able to argue with her husband's logic and she had dropped the subject, not wanting to trouble him further.

She leaned back on the stone back of the bench, bending her head backwards and opening her eyes to gaze at the sparse stars above that twinkled like tired diamonds, dim between the leaves of the linden tree. Thinking about her husband brought her thoughts back on his strange and worrisome antics, which had been on her mind for days now.

Something was bothering Klaus, but she couldn't figure out what. She had inquired – rather frequently – about it, but he had reassured her everything was in perfect order and something in his dark bespectacled eyes had made her desist from further inquiries.

She sighed, leaning into the stone of the bench and feeling grounded by its stalwart presence, much like she had been in the past, even though the stone no longer hummed within her soul.

Klaus wasn't properly sleeping and he looked tired, the faint outline of circles growing darker under his eyes. She knew it wasn't just his work. There were longing looks in the distance when he thought she wasn't around and a great measure of worry, along with something that looked almost like...guilt?

She couldn't understand what ailed him and the first explanation which had – unfortunately – popped up in her mind had been one she had refused to even ponder. It would have been downright demeaning and unfair – especially when she witnessed almost on a daily basis the devotion he had for their family – to even think of it.

But a small part of her could not help the treacherous sneaking doubt from appearing. Gretchen refused to entertain the thought, presently more than ever, and yet she disgustingly wondered if he was having an affair. It would logically explain everything, his strange behaviour, his withdrawn attitude, the _guilt_. And it wouldn't be impossible, given how much time he spent away from home to be at the University in Bochum...

Gretchen shook her head, loathing herself. Klaus had been the most devoted husband any woman could wish for so far. He had never given her _any_ reason to doubt his fealty. To think that he might have found another woman was an offence to him and it made her furious with herself. He may not have been a dwarf like she had been in her past life, bound to love only once, but to think him capable of adultery...

She angrily got up to her feet, starting to pace around the darkness of the garden. There had to be an explanation for Klaus' behaviour that did not involve infidelity. She would just have to patiently try and discover it. It was simple, really – she reasoned. She would have to pay closer attention to him – and if a small part of her told her she was doing it to make really sure her theory was wrong, she denied its existence. Gretchen would have to take a page out of her professional method and patiently dig until she found out what troubled him. After all – she thought wryly - one would not uncover ancient mosaics with an excavator.

She nodded. It was going to be hard, though. Klaus was a very secretive man, despite his amiable nature. But after fifteen years by his side Gretchen was confident she would be able to riddle it all out.

Casting aside every remnant of her incredibly stupid notions, she decided it was getting late enough to go to sleep and made her way back into the house, locking the door behind her. She tiptoed barefoot towards their bedroom, careful not to wake anyone and opened the door.

In the relative darkness, broken only by the white light of the street-lamp, she noticed Klaus' sleeping form snuggled under the covers. He must had woken up, after all. She changed in her nightgown and, silently, she sneaked into bed, trying not to disrupt Klaus' usually light sleep, but an arm curled around her midsection the second her head hit the pillow.

She smiled, leaning in.

“I didn't wake you?” Gretchen asked him in a whisper and she felt him shake his head, gently pulling her closer.

“I got into bed a short while ago.” he replied softly, his voice sounding tired.

Gretchen pressed her lips onto his. They lingered a moment before she put her head in the crook of his neck and closed her eyes, lulled to sleep by the sound of his breathing.

 

The sink rang hollowly when Balin put down the empty glass. He lifted his eyes and looked at the garden beyond the window where his wife was currently planting flowers. Watching Gretchen shovel dirt to make the necessary holes made an amused smile curve his lips. She was applying the same meticulous yet energetic care she was used to during excavations and Balin almost expected her to triumphantly exclaim she had found some ancient relic under their lawn.

He shook his head at his silly thoughts and began washing up. The house was eerily quiet with the boys being at their grandparents' house for the weekend and Balin found it almost unnerving. Especially with the thoughts that plagued his mind lately.

He closed the tap and leaned against the sink.

They were nothing new. In fact they were at the origin of all his academic work of research, but in the past he had been able to forget sometimes that his whole existence was one, well-constructed deception.

He was Klaus Weber, son of Ute and Horst, anthropologist specialised in the field of Eastern religions, married to the most extraordinary woman he had ever met – and who was currently watering the newly planted petunias – and father to a pair of overly-inquisitive boys.

But that was only part of who he was – the part he was known for. He was also Balin son of Fundin, erstwhile advisor of the King Under the Mountain and later – albeit briefly – Lord of Khazad-Dûm.

Lord of the long lost kingdom he had woven into the tales he told his children, turning the tragic story of his death into an epic tale of the valorous deeds of a brave company of knights which, after the death of their commander, had been led by a wise healer and a daring scholar and managed to defeat the evil sorcerer who had claimed the castle as their own.

Balin - metaphors aside - liked to imagine that was what had happened after his own demise. He liked to think Óin and Ori had somehow managed to truly reclaim Moria from the goblins and Durin's Bane. But he doubted it.

Still, it gave him a measure of comfort to imagine the events that had transpired after his death. Turning them into a fairy tale - turning all the major events he had witnessed or taken part into a bedtime story fit for two boys - was after all, the only way he was ever going to be able to tell them about it at all.

It troubled Balin.

He had thought for so long that he had made peace with this second chance he had been given - even if he did not understand why, of all the dwarves it would have been him that was given the same blessing Durin had.

It was the main reason why he had endeavoured into researching reincarnation – the need to understand. With time, the urge to know had waned, leaving space to supine acceptance that he was reborn. And Balin had started to build this new life, careful to avoid the mistakes of the past, determined to make this second chance worthwhile.

So hard he had worked to achieve it all - to finish his studies despite having to rely mostly on himself, to get a doctorate, to build a family with the tireless archaeology student he had begun dating when both of them had been on their first year of university in Berlin - Balin had simply, day by day, slowly drifted into a semblance of normality. There were periods of time he would refer to himself as Klaus, almost forgetting the long life he had lived before being reborn. Almost, but not quite.

He grimaced, puling himself upright.

Balin couldn't pinpoint exactly _what_ had made him think of his whole existence once again. Perhaps it was the fast approaching of his thirty-fifth birthday – the notion that he had very likely crossed half of this life's path. Or perhaps it was just that unresolved troubles always found a way to catch up. He didn't know, but it didn't change the fact that he had been lying to every single person in this life, and moreover he had been and still was deceiving Gretchen. And the notion gnawed at him deeply.

But how could he tell his wonderfully rational wife that he had been reborn? She would no doubt think he had taken leave of his senses. That was, after she would have been done laughing at his expense, thinking it no doubt an elaborate joke. A professor who had published eight works so far on the belief of reincarnation that had been reborn himself? It would have made Balin chuckle himself, if all the humour hadn't fled him at the thought of just how much he was withholding from his wife. How much he would withhold from their children.

Balin shook his head sadly, feeling a great weight on his shoulders.

“Klaus.” Gretchen's voice startled him and he turned his head in her direction.

She was standing on the doorway, a black smudge of dirt on her flushed cheek and her yellow hair sticking dishevelled in all directions. There was a frown on her forehead and Balin braced himself for the umpteenth inquiry on whether he was alright, but it never came. Instead she said.

“I've been thinking.” she pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down “I'll be gone to Italy in July, to dig. What do you say if you and the boys come along?”

“To Aquileia?” he asked, fetching her a glass of water and giving it to his visibly thirsty wife.

Gretchen was going to work on the archaeological site in the small town in Northern Italy, like she had been doing for the past four summers - bar the one just after Markus had been born - and he usually stayed in Essen, caring for their children while she suffered sunburns and dug along with the archaeology students from several Italian universities.

“There's the town of Grado nearby.” she said, gulping down the water “I've been there a couple of times, it's nice if you like the sea. Maybe the boys would like it.”

She didn't, but that was her own preference. Despite the human body and life she was leading, Gretchen was a dwarf deep within. She had barely seen the surface when she had been Dóta and even now she still loved it best when she was surrounded by stone, digging through ruins.

The holiday had been a spur of the moment idea that had occurred to her just as she had been pruning the hedge. Gretchen had been mulling on her husband's strange moodiness for the past weeks and after a long deliberation she had concluded nothing, save that something definitely bothered Klaus and that she could no longer watch him in such a state.

She didn't know if a holiday would do anything to help him, but a change of scenery – and the small Italian town on the lagoon was as far from Essen or Bochum as it came – could not harm him.

Klaus was looking at her with a twinkle in his brown eyes and Gretchen felt herself grin.

“So, what do you say?” she inquired.

“It's a brilliant idea.” he told her, smiling widely. And for a moment Klaus was back to his usual self.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” by Roberta Flack.


	2. I hid my secrets in a box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A journey begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor update 20/07/2015

The sky was a clear cloudless blue and the sea shimmered in the sunlight, a vast expanse of greenish blue broken only occasionally by the tufts of reed that grew on the sandbars which emerged in the low tide. They were driving on the road that connected the island of Grado with the mainland, cutting through the lagoon like an outstretched arm white the water caressed its flanks, lazy like the movement of the reeds.

Balin drove leisurely, taking in the sight and feeling the fresh air hit his face through the open window of the car. Gretchen was chatting vivaciously with Georg, explaining him in her very professional way the ecosystem of the lagoon. The way she spoke to their five-year old son made Balin's lips quirk in amusement – it was like listening to one of her lectures on ancient Roman culture, except their son – unlike her students – didn't possess the endless patience to listen to the whole exposition and interrupted her constantly with a barrage of questions. Balin could see the near exasperation on her face when he threw a glance to his right, but in spite of it all she patiently answered each and every Georg's question. Balin smiled, getting his eyes back on the road.

They had almost reached the town of Grado where they were going to take their holiday – he and the boys – while Gretchen worked on the archaeological site of Aquileia. Normally the University would have provided lodgings for her, but since they were coming to Grado, his wife had elected to stay with them in the rooms they had made reservations for. Gretchen had managed it all in her usual organised modus operandi, finding a family management bed and breakfast through a recommendation by one of her Italian colleagues.

Balin was glad she had had the idea. It was the first proper holiday they were having as a family since Markus had been born and Balin was truly happy about it. So happy in fact, he had managed to push back the gnawing guilt that had been plaguing him for months, focusing instead on what good was there in his life. He truly didn't know if he was deserving of such luck, but he thanked whatever power above for allowing him this chance.

He smiled, glancing at his wife once again.

They were about to reach Grado and Georg had finally relented in his almost incessant questioning about birds and “How can they fly?”, prompted by the sight of several seagulls diving towards the calm water of the lagoon to catch fish, while she had been explaining to him  _what_ a lagoon was. Their eldest son's curiosity made for an endless well of questions and Markus seemed to lean in the same direction – it was only a matter of time before he stopped listening with his brown eyes widened in silent curiosity and began inquiring about just everything.

Gretchen smiled, casting a glance behind her seat to see the boys intent on contemplating the flight of the grey herons and seagulls in the azure sky.

The island grew closer and after a couple of minutes the road finally connected with proper solid ground. Gretchen gazed at the town she had visited several times during her working summers in Aquileia. She pointed Klaus towards the general area where their bed and breakfast was located and her husband veered the car left.

He was in a good mood and Gretchen was genuinely happy about it. He had been in a much lighter mood lately and she was elated her idea of taking a holiday together – more or less, since she was going to be working – seemed to actually reap results.

After a bit of driving through the narrow streets they found the yellow one-story house they had been looking for and Klaus pulled their Volkswagen in the driveway. The process of unbuckling the boys' seatbelts and getting them out of the car took them some time and just as she had taken a complaining Markus in her arms, she noticed a middle-aged man walking out of the building with a genial smile on his red-cheeked face.

“ _Buongiorno_.” he greeted them in Italian, then - no doubt having spotted their number plates - switched to a heavily accented German, “Welcome. I am Giacomo Sartori.”

“Klaus Weber.” her husband greeted, shaking the shorter man's hand “Pleased to meet you.”

“Gretchen Bauer-Weber” she told him once he turned his green-blue eyes to her “We spoke on the phone?”

“No, that my son.” he replied “He is good at languages”

Then, casting his warm gaze on the boys

“These your children?”

“Yes” she replied “Georg and Markus”

She almost chuckled at the serious expression both boys sported. Georg even extended his small and still slightly pudgy hand so he could give it to Mr. Sartori, who dutifully shook it. Gretchen couldn't contain the titter that shook her and glancing in her husband's direction she saw the same amusement twinkle in his dark eyes.

“Let me help with luggage” Mr. Sartori said and Klaus thanked him, opening the trunk of their Volkswagen, while she grabbed Georg's hand and began walking towards the entrance, Markus still in her arms.

The three of them passed between a pair of large oleanders planted in sturdy-looking clay pots and, releasing Georg for a moment, she pushed the door open. Just as someone pulled it from the inside.

“ _Oddio, scusi_ ” a short blond boy in his late teens excused himself with an earnest look of apology.

“It's all right.” she replied, then repeated in her crude Italian “ _Non fa niente_.”

“Oh! You must be Mrs. Weber.” he exclaimed in fluent German, with only the slightest hint of a foreign accent “Come in, please. Let me show you your rooms.”

He gestured them to enter and she pulled Georg who – like his brother – was currently looking at the youth in ill-disguised curiosity.

“These must be your sons, right?” the blond teen inquired, but before she could answer him he suddenly exclaimed “Oh, how impolite of me! Let me introduce myself. My name is Alberto.”

He extended a hand and she shook it.

“Gretchen Bauer-Weber.” she told him while he led them all the way through the house and up the stairs.

He chattered about polite nonsense and inquired about their trip, whether they were hungry and suggested several good restaurants nearby when Gretchen had told him they hadn't.

“Although everything is nearby here in Grado.” he concluded wryly while he opened the door to their rooms.

The youth was an utter chatterbox, but there was something endearing about his polite manners and fretting attitude. 

“If you need anything, you'll find me in the entrance” he told her with a beaming smile “Or the garden.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” she replied, ushering Georg in the room and putting Markus down before she closed the door.

  


Balin carried the suitcases through the front door and up the stairs, careful not to drop any – there were many toys inside, not to mention his books. Mr. Sartori was helping him whilst trying to communicate with him in his fragmented German but thankfully Balin had a rudimentary knowledge of Italian so he managed to understand him.

He had learned it back when he had been a student and the University had – after much struggle – managed to organise a trip to the archaeological site of Ostia, near Rome. Balin had taken a crash course of the language and – naturally – had learned very little, so his communication skills with the fellow Italian students who had been hosting them had been atrocious – especially since their German had been rather terrible as well. But on the upside that excursion had been the one during which Gretchen and him had made the first tentative – from his part - and bold - from hers – steps in their relationship.

Balin smiled fondly as he recalled their first conversation. When she had asked him if they had known each other already, since he had seemed familiar to her. And how she had laughed at the stories he had told her in order to keep her attention once he had gained it.

Balin ascended the stairs, trying not to be overly hindered by the luggage. He had nearly reached the intermediate landing when he noticed that someone was descending from the landing above. He put the suitcase down and moved to the corner so the person could pass, while he fumbled with the strap of one of the bags which had tangled around a handle.

“ _Oh, Alberto, sei te._ ” Mr. Sartori greeted the person “ _Ma dov'eri fino ad ora?_ ”

Finally having freed the bag and putting it atop the suitcase he freed the passage. And lifted his eyes.

He did a double take, blinking in sheer disbelief.

Short blond curly hair, big blue eyes and a bright smile he was very familiar with.

It couldn't be.

“ _Stavo aiutando la signora_.” the lad told their host – clearly his father – then turning to Balin and giving him the briefest frown, he flashed him a smile and rocking on the balls of his feet said “Good afternoon.”

Balin just stared at him, unable to comprehend the sight. The impossible sight.

“Good afternoon” he replied after a moment, still looking at the lad in utter disbelief. It was not possible and yet the teen looked, moved and talked in the same unmistakable way Bilbo Baggins had done.

“ _Guarda che il sole mangia le ore!_ ” Mr. Sartori told his son – Bilbo? - and the latter got into motion immediately, taking the bag and suitcase Balin had put down and carrying them back up the stairs.

While Balin just stared in disbelief at the youth's retreating form.  


The waves lapped slowly on the grey sand of the beach. Balin sat in the shallow water with Markus, who was currently digging through the wet sand with his small toy spade while Georg splashed in the sea with his arm bands on. He supervised his sons' activities, feeling the cool water on his feet, but his mind was elsewhere.

For the past two days he had been able to think about little other than the mystery of Mr. Sartori's son. Was he Bilbo? Could it even be possible for him to _be_ Bilbo?

Was he imagining things?

Balin shook his head, feeling the sunlight on his rapidly drying skin. He hadn't seen much of the lad since that first encounter on the stairs – Gretchen had dealt with the logistics so Balin hadn't even had the occasion. He had only briefly glimpsed the youth in the bed and breakfast and each time the lad had been frowning.

And it was that which made Balin suspect he _wasn't_ imagining things after all. Not only was the way he frowned so uncannily familiar – hadn't he seen Bilbo do so countless times – but he had also not given Mr. Sartori's son any reason to react in such a fashion.

Unless he recognised Balin.

He was sorely tempted to talk to the lad about it, but a cautious part of him suggested to wait and see. Nothing good ever came from rash decisions.

He sighed, shaking his head wearily.  


Alberto put the brochures down on the counter, neatly placing them in full sight so their guests could take them. They didn't have many yet. They wouldn't be filled to the full of their capacity until August. Right now there were just an elderly couple from Udine and the Weber family.

The Webers. Alberto knitted his brow while he straightened a couple of brochures. He couldn't really complain about them, they were very polite and their children were truly well-behaved, not to mention Mrs. Weber was delightful to talk to, if a bit rough around the edges, but that had never bothered him. In fact, Alberto found it an endearing quality in people.

But Mr. Weber, on the other hand, made him uneasy.

There was something about the bespectacled man that made Alberto think he looked eerily familiar. But he _knew_ he had never met him before. Alberto had an excellent memory of both faces and names - he knew the family trees of both his father and late mother by heart back to five and sometimes even six generations.

No, he was sure he had never seen the man before. And yet it felt like he should remember who Mr. Weber was, but he couldn't. And it added to his unease.

Unease made worse by the poor sleep he was getting.

Ever since the Webers had arrived Alberto's generally pleasant dreams of lush green hills that reminded him of Tuscany had taken a dark twist and he had woken up in a cold sweat more than once in the past two nights. He couldn't remember exactly what he had been dreaming about, but whatever it had been it had scared him greatly. And hurt him.

Alberto knew it was silly to connect the arrival of the Weber family or even Mr. Weber himself with the appearance of his nightmares, but he couldn't shake the feeling the two things were connected.

And so he avoided being around the German man, going to the length of making the longest detours around the house in order not to cross paths with him.

He sighed, straightening his shirt and his back.

Mr. Weber was a guest and Alberto had been taught the value of politeness. Unease or not, he could not lack manners. It would be unforgivable.

  


Gretchen was exhausted. Her back ached and her skin felt like it was on fire. She had applied sunscreen, but her skin was so pale and the sun on the Adriatic Sea so bright it had helped little. She peeled off the sweaty shirt she had been working in and winced at the touch of the fabric on her sunburnt skin.

She loved her job with a fierce passion, digging through ancient ruins in the hope of finding some long-buried artefact of the past – and hoping against all hope there might be one that had survived all the millennia that separated the world she had first lived in and the one she had been reborn into – but in spite of it all she utterly loathed the sunburns that were an integral part of it.

She turned on the shower and the cool water soothed her sore skin briefly. Gretchen didn't have the time to indulge in it. Klaus and the boys were waiting for her in a pizzeria nearby. In spite of the endless mole of work at the archaeological site – beginning with the supervision of the archaeology students lest they did more damage that good, through identification of eventual findings and cataloguing them, to the most menial shovelling of dirt which in truth made for most of her days – Gretchen had decided to at least have dinner with her family every day. And in truth she was looking forward to it. Spending time with their sons and with Klaus was worth all the tiredness she had to push back and some more.

Gretchen emerged from the shower and hastily threw on a dress, wincing – again – at the scraping of the fabric on her currently delicate skin.

Fifteen minutes later she was sitting on the terrace of a small pizzeria, ordering her dinner while the boys sat very calmly at the table, exhaustion clear in the way their eyelids dropped. She chuckled, shaking her head. Klaus may seem very calm and meek, but he was a very shrewd man underneath. Having the boys exhaust all their energy before he brought them in a restaurant – a place where they would notoriously be bored out of their wits and thus prone to mischief – was a brilliant example of his cunning mind.

Gretchen turned her gaze on her husband, certain to find mirth twinkling in his eyes.

But found none.

She knitted her eyebrows. Klaus was staring at nothing in particular, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“What's on your mind?” she asked him, hoping it was not the same mysterious maudlinness that had afflicted him before.

“No, nothing. Don't worry.” he replied with a smile that didn't reach his bespectacled eyes.

And Gretchen realised it most likely _was_ the same maudlinness. There was the same odd absence that he had been sporting in the past months, the one Gretchen had been sure the prospect of the holiday in Grado had banished.

She pursed her lips, biting back the questions that sprung forth. She hadn't forgotten her resolve of being unobtrusive in her task of finding out what troubled Klaus. She had merely hoped the situation had resolved itself.

To her dismay, it obviously hadn't.

  


Mr. Weber was sitting on a bench in the garden, his youngest son lodged on his knees while the toddler observed with a small frown of concentration the contents of a cardboard illustrated book. On the floor, the older boy was drawing something with his crayons while he hummed the tune of what was bound to be a cartoon. Alberto observed the scene from the laundry-room's open window, once again astonished by the familiarity of the German man's looks and movements, not to mention his voice which had just began telling a fairy tale to the boys, if the ”Once upon a time” was indication enough.

Alberto folded the sheets neatly – the way his mother had always insisted when she had been around to do so – while he listened to the steady flow of German as it shaped a fantastic tale of heroes and kings. There was a journey described, long and perilous – as the introduction claimed – which brought a brave company of men to their ancestral home with the goal of reclaiming it.

He listened in rapture and as the tale picked up pace and monstrous wolves began hunting the heroes across wide grassy plains, the sheets hanging forgotten in his hands. And when the lucky finding of a hidden passageway saved them form certain death, along with the riders that slew the enemies, Alberto's hands began to clutch the cotton in a vice-like grip.

Alberto knew the story.

_The heroes walked through a narrow passage that seemed to vibrate with magic._

He had never heard it, but he _knew_ it.

_At the end of the passage an opening in the stone led them to a ledge that overlooked a hidden valley._

His eyes were wide and his heart hammered in his chest.

_Waterfalls caressed the flanks of the frail-looking buildings, almost vines carved in stone._

How was it possible?

Alberto stood there motionless for the longest time, careful not to miss a single word of the story as the city in the hidden valley was described. And it was so uncannily alike the dreamlands he dreamt of often, the small mountainside heaven where incredibly tall and beautiful men and women glided with grace through the lace-like architecture.

How could it be that this story was so similar to his dreams?

How could it be he felt no surprise when Mr. Weber's mesmerising voice described one of the heroes climbing atop the table and beginning a cheerful song? And why did Alberto remember a long moustache and an odd hat? “Imagine” he corrected himself, not “remember”. He hadn't _been_ there, so there was no _remembering._

Alberto shook his head just as the steady flow of the story was interrupted by Mr. Weber's eldest son who said

“Mum says we can't climb tables.”

“Your mother is right.” the father answered “It's wrong to do as Bofur did.”

 _Bofur._ Alberto snapped his head in the direction of the professor.

“Who is Bofur?” the boy asked.

“He is one of the companions. The one who sang atop the table.” Mr. Weber replied, but the sound was a dull buzzing in Alberto's ears.

He _knew_ that name. It belonged to the long moustaches and strange hat and a large cheerful smile. He wasn't imagining things. He knew them.

Alberto hadn't realised he had existed the laundry room until he found himself standing on the doorway that led to the garden, looking at Mr. Weber, while his hands still firmly held the sheet he had failed to fold.

Mr. Weber apparently noticed him, because after giving Alberto a small frown of bewilderment he put the younger boy down on the floor next to his brother and, with a promise of finishing his tale later, the man walked towards Alberto.

“Sir.” Alberto said, feeling suddenly very nervous “I... well, that is...”

He huffed a sigh. _Get a grip._

“Your tale is very familiar to me.”

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Buongiorno. - Good day  
> Oddio, scusi. - Oh my God, I'm sorry.  
> Non fa niente. - No problem.  
> Oh, Alberto, sei te. - Oh, Alberto, that's you (Note: it's vernacular, the correct form would be “sei tu”)  
> Ma dov'eri fino ad ora?- Where have you been all the while?  
> Stavo aiutando la signora. - I was helping the lady.  
> Guarda che il sole mangia le ore! - Hurry up! (Note: it's an expression that literally means “Mind that the sun eats the hours”)
> 
> Chapter title taken from “Run” by Jasmine Thompson.


	3. For the things you don't know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truths, omissions and lies.

The sun shone blindingly in the heat of the afternoon and Balin pulled the shutters closed, leaving the bedroom almost completely in darkness. The boys were lying curled up in their respective beds for once taking their nap. Markus was clutching tightly Bernard, the large teddy bear Gretchen's mother had given the boy for his second birthday, while Georg looked like the very picture of innocence with his mouth slightly agape and his angelic face – the perfect opposite of the inquisitive curiosity and underlying vein of mischief his son sported in his waking hours.

Balin silently tiptoed out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him, walking out into the cool hallway and down the stairs. He passed the entrance and entered the dining room where they took breakfast every morning. The room was silent, the chairs upturned atop the bare tables, and dimly lit by a lamp since the shutters were tightly closed to keep the summer heat out.

Mr. Sartori's son was sitting on one of the two chairs still properly placed by a table, his back turned to him and Balin cleared his throat to get the lad's attention. The blond curly head turned in his direction quickly and the youth flashed him a nervous smile, his hands tucked in the pockets of his trousers.

He gestured him to take a seat and Balin complied, looking at the former hobbit. The lad was truly young, he couldn't have been more than eighteen, twenty at best. There were no lines on his face and he was leaner than he had been, but his expressive blue eyes were not those of a lad. The light in them was dimmed, the same way it had been in all the years Balin had continued regularly visiting the Shire.

His hobbit friend had been content to be back in his smial, amongst the green rolling hills and the damp smell of grass and soil, even happy when his solitude had been broken by the unexpected addition of his young cousin Frodo to his home. But his eyes had always told Balin a different tale, one he knew well himself. The tale of grief and regrets. Yet, unlike many of the Company – like his own brother – Bilbo had not shorn his non-existent beard, nor he had entombed himself in self-blame.

He had never forgotten his Adventure – as he liked to dub it – nor had he forgotten those they had all lost and never fully mourned, but he had found that peculiar courage of his that had allowed him to keep living, almost as if nothing had changed, content in the comfort of his routines, in the uneventfulness of the life in the Shire.

It was strange to see him, so young – much younger than Balin had ever seen him – and so nervous about talking with him. About talking about the Quest. He had approached him earlier on that day and confirmed Balin's suspicions of having hardly any recollection of his past life. He had seemed so small and lost in that moment, Balin had felt a tug of protectiveness towards the lad, but his own children had been there and the conversation they needed to have was not for their ears, so Balin had asked him to wait until the boys were asleep to talk about the tale Bilbo had overheard.

It had been a bold move from his part – Balin admitted to himself - to tell the beginning of the Quest to his children in Bilbo's presence, but after noticing the lad folding the laundry beneath the open window in the ground-floor room, Balin had decided to gamble, setting aside for a moment the cautious approach he had been applying to the mystery of Alberto Sartori, and try something different. It had been a small hope, to elicit a reaction from the latter by loudly telling the tale of the Quest to his ever-curious children. But, to his delight, it had proven worthwhile.

Worth all the heartache of reliving the tale once again. He swallowed.

Ever since Georg had been old enough to be told stories, Balin had spun his tales, retelling what had once been history for him, but in such a way his son – and later, children – could understand it. Some of the stories he had told them had once been events he had witnessed or partook in – such as the Reclaiming of Khazad-Dûm – but in all the years he had been elected the family story-teller, Balin had never before told his children the tale of the Quest for Erebor. It had been – and still was – too painful to remember, too emotionally charged and Balin had feared he would not be able to keep his voice from cracking and his eyes from brimming with familiar tears.

The soles of the lad's shoes squeaked on the floor as he nervously shuffled them and Balin's mind was drawn out of his reverie. Bilbo was looking back at him, visibly on edge.

“I'm sorry if you had to wait.” he told the youth “But Markus wouldn't fall asleep.”

“Don't worry, sir.” Bilbo replied politely with an anxious twitch of his lips, then he cleared his throat.

“I'm... well,” he began, taking his hands out of his pockets and fidgeting them in his lap “that is... I'm not sure how...”

“You wish for an explanation.” Balin interrupted the lad's nervous stuttering and he exhaled a breath, nodding earnestly.

“You don't remember much, I assume.” he told Bilbo and the latter frowned.

“I would say that ' _remembering'_ is not exactly...” he began, but trailed off with a shake of his head, then, lifting his eyes to meet Balin's, he admitted

“No.” and bowed his head with an even deeper frown, and Balin sighed.

He had suspected as much – and yet it was still almost inconceivably strange to think Bilbo didn't know who he was in truth, nor who he had been – but he couldn't begin to imagine how earth-shattering it must be to suddenly begin remembering. He had known and remembered his life ever since he had been a small bespectacled child devouring the books in the local library. There had never been a moment of doubt or uncertainty on that, only on the way it had happened.

“Let me assure you that whatever you remember is not a fabrication of your own mind.” he told Bilbo who was looking at him with a conflicted expression.

“But how is it possible?” he asked confused and almost affronted by what he must have perceived as utterly irrational “It's... it _can't_ be.”

“It is and it can, laddie.” Balin rebutted gently “Trust your own mind to know the difference between a memory and a fantasy.”

“But...” Bilbo protested “How... does it mean I have...”

He opened and closed his mouth several times before he settled with exclaiming

“That's absurd.”

Mr. Weber looked at him kindly, offering him a reassuring smile before he said

“You have been reborn, Bilbo.”

And Alberto stopped in his tracks. How had he called him?

Setting aside the full implications of what the man had told him, Alberto focused on the name. _Bilbo_. There was something profoundly right in that name, something that evoked the gentle voice of a woman with laughter and a sparkle of mischief in her green eyes and soft calloused hands, white puffy sleeves. And the echo of his own voice saying “Mum.”

_Mum._

But... but the language, no, it was not any he recognised – and he spoke a fair share of languages. And yet Alberto knew it. He did. He didn't understand how – impossible as it was - but he was sure, should he wish it, he would know the words.

And Mr. Weber would understand him, there was no doubt.

But he wasn't Mr. Weber, he stopped in his thoughts. No, he was... Why couldn't he recall it? It was on the top of his tongue, but a thick mist of oblivion surrounded it and Alberto couldn't reach it.

“What's your name?” he blurted, somewhat ashamed at his straightforwardness, but the bespectacled man merely smiled warmly at him.

“Balin son of Fundin.” he said and then added “At your service.”

And Alberto was eerily reminded of a very similar scene. Of a white-bearded man – no, he hadn't been a man, but what had he been? - standing in a round doorway with the same warm smile and twinkle in his brown eyes.

It was overwhelming and Alberto – but that wasn't him, no, how had Mr. Balin called him? _Bilbo_ \- felt the world spin slightly. He did not stop to ponder the explanation the older man had given him, too freshly unearthed memories were assaulting him, growing like vines over his mind.

He saw Mr. Balin open his mouth to say more but he heard the sudden soft sound of feet coming from the hallway and his mouth snapped shut. Alberto turned his head towards the doorway and saw the eldest Weber child curiously peeking his blond head inside the dining room.

“Papa?” he said and the professor gave Alberto an apologetic smile.

“Georg.” he said, getting up from his chair “Where is your brother?”

“Sleeping.” the boy replied “I awoke and I didn't want to wake Markus.”

“You did well.” he told the boy, then, turning to him, he said contritely “I'm afraid we'll have to postpone this conversation.”

Alberto waved his hand.

“No worries, sir. Any time you manage.” he replied, getting up from his chairs despite the wobbliness of his legs. He straightened his back and said “Now, I should be getting back to my chores. If you'll excuse me.”

Mr. Balin nodded and he took his son's hand.

“Come now, let's not bother Mr. Alberto.” he told the boy and they walked out of the dining room.

The moment they turned the corner Alberto slumped back on the chair, feeling overwhelmed. His eyes fixed onto nothing while the world spun and tilted under his chair in its absurdity.

 

Gretchen sat in the shade of a wall, her back pressed on the cool stone and her grimy forearms resting on her equally filthy knees. She took a gulp of lukewarm water from a plastic bottle and watched as the students kept carrying away wheelbarrows of dirt. There hadn't been any findings today yet and while it frustrated her, she couldn't help feeling happy about it. It would make for a quiet day of shovelling until it was time to go home.

She took another gulp of water, drying her forehead with a crumpled paper handkerchief. She must be truly tired – Gretchen mused with a shake of head – if the prospect of a menial, fruitless task sounded appealing.

Her head fell back on the wall and she closed her eyes for a moment, sighing. It wasn't physical exhaustion, even if she was more tired than usual and had been getting very little sleep in the past few weeks. She opened her eyes and looked at the site bustling with activity like a dusty beehive. No, in spite of the heat and the scorching sun, she wasn't bothered by the strain of using her muscles to remove the layers upon layers of dirt in order to unearth whatever relic of the past had been hidden under millennia of oblivion.

It was something altogether different that exhausted her.

A question she had been asking herself for the past years, but had always pushed back because Gretchen had never been one to linger too much on the abstractions of life – that was her husband's way of being. It was a dilemma of existential proportions that lately – especially in the past days – had made itself known and Gretchen wondered once again: was there any point to her work?

Maybe it was the fact that for the umpteenth year in a long row of excavations in various sites she had yet to find _any_ trace of the world she had once lived in. Maybe it was Klaus' strange moods, the silence in between what he thought and what he told – the silence that was loud in her ears – which had made her spend countless hours of shovelling with an absent mind while she mulled on him. Maybe it was her own moodiness that had taken hold of her lately. But most likely it was all those things combined together that made her morose about the work she did. That made her wonder if she was ever going to find anything that belonged to a past the world had forgotten.

She downed the water and set the empty bottle on the ground.

Professionally she had always wondered how it was possible that no physical trace of the past world she remembered had survived. She knew the landscape had changed, and greatly so. The maps she remembered looking at when she had been Dóta had shown a continent vastly different from any that could be found on Earth in the present day and age. The only logical explanation she had reached for the phenomenon was that the tectonic plates had shifted in the course of the millennia – dozens, hundreds, _thousands_ of millennia? - thus effectively giving the world a different shape.

But in spite of that Gretchen couldn't believe _no relic_ had made it unscathed through the course of time. Something, a weapon, a coin, a simple everyday item, anything _should_ have made it.

It was the main reason she had chosen to become an archaeologist.

Gretchen had no painful longing for the past – Dóta's life had been too short to leave a mark and had ended too abruptly – but she could not accept that whole civilisations had been simply wiped away but the tramp of time. She had been determined to find proof of their existence – in truth she still was, but she was definitely lacking hope.

Not that she would ever give up. It wasn't in her nature to do so. The same way she was bent on finding out what troubled her husband, Gretchen would continue digging in the vain hope the Romans – who had effectively conquered most of the Old World – had by chance run into some artefact of that distant past.

It was the only way she had. It would be like looking for a odd coin in a treasure hoard otherwise. She _did_ keep herself on track with the research of her colleagues who worked in South America, China, Northern Africa and the Middle East, and every other area of the world where such a civilisation had existed which could have inadvertently preserved a relic from the Age of Middle Earth – as she had dubbed it – but she had chosen to focus on the Romans, hoping to find a clue that would point her in the right direction, an indication of a geographical area of the present world where perhaps once, one of the great civilisations of Middle Earth had resided.

She huffed a sigh and pushed herself back to her feet, ignoring the sudden dizziness. The heat was truly horrible and part of her longed to get back to Essen where the climate was more to her - and her body's - liking. But there was no helping it and she was surely not going to find any relic by sitting idly, so pushing away any discomfort and maudlinness she got back to work.

 

A cool breeze danced in the curtains, carrying the smell of the pines and the sound of the crickets, along with the faint noise of the distant bars and restaurants where people still milled about. It wasn't that late – just a little past ten o'clock – but the boys had been well past their usual sleeping time. In a way it had been Balin's own fault they had stayed awake for longer than usual.

Hadn't he begun telling his sons the tale of the Quest for Erebor they wouldn't have bullied him into continuing it, effectively banishing sleep with the account of the adventures the Company had faced. The boys had been more attentive than ever, especially since Balin hadn't had the heart to alter the story – like he always did – to suit the boys better. Admittedly, he had skipped the goriest details, but the names and personalities of Balin's sorely missed companions had been left unadulterated. And the boys _loved_ the tale, especially the tales of the two princes' antics. Balin had reached the Eagles' flight to the Carrock by the time Georg's and Markus' eyelids had begun to drop, but they had managed to keep themselves awake long enough for the Wizard to reach the fallen King and heal him.

Balin watched his sons sleep, much like he had done that afternoon, wondering at the sudden twist of events this holiday had proven to be. He had never given much credit to omens and fate – Balin had always been a firm believer of the idea that each person forged their own, for good or for ill – but this summer had proven him very wrong.

What were the odds of taking a room in a one of the many bed and breakfasts in Grado – where he hadn't even planned to go before Gretchen had suggested it – and have it managed by none other than the current father of a Bilbo Baggins reborn? In a world that counted nearly six billion people what were the odds they should meet? What were the odds they should be _both_ reborn in the same age?

Balin tucked the cotton sheet around Markus' small form and pressed a kiss on the youngest boy's forehead before doing the same with Georg. He switched the light off and walked put of the room and into the one he shared with his wife. The room was dark, but he heard the sound of the shower running in the bathroom and he chuckled, shaking his head.

Gretchen had obviously managed to slip away from her colleagues who had been insisting she join them for a drink for days now. After much nagging from their part and Balin's quiet nudging she had agreed but hadn't been happy about it. Normally she wouldn't have minded – quite the contrary in fact, Gretchen had always been very sociable and loved spending time in good company - but she had decided before they had even left Essen that she was going to spend as much time as she could spare with them. And Gretchen being herself had – naturally – done the impossible to make it happen.

He smiled fondly and opened the door that led to a small balcony. Balin leaned on the railing, trying to digest all the events of the current day, but also of the days that had preceded it, of the whole eventful holiday. He could still scarcely believe Bilbo had been reborn and the lad himself fared even worse than him. On one hand Balin felt sorry for being the catalyst that had him remembering, but at the same time he knew it had been the right thing to do.

It was all uncanny and needed much thinking about but at the end of the day, a part of Balin couldn't help being happy about it, glad there was one person in the world who knew him for whom he truly was. And not just anyone, but someone whom he had once called friend.

But still, the rest of him twisted uncomfortably knowing that Gretchen should be that person, that it should be his wife who knew him better than any in the world, who should be privy to his secret. But she wasn't. Bilbo knew him like Gretchen didn't and it was wrong, profoundly wrong. But he could do nothing about it.

It was the worst helplessness, to be forced to lie because the truth was so unbelievable she could never accept it.

And guilt cut deeply nonetheless.

 

Gretchen hanged the damp towel on the rack to dry and put her linen nightgown on, emerging from the steamy bathroom. The bedroom was as dark as she had left it – unwilling to summon a swarm of mosquitoes with the light – but she noticed the balcony door was open and she walked barefoot through the room, pulling the curtains aside to reveal her husband who was leaning with his elbows on the iron railing, bespectacled eyes gazing in the distance.

She leaned on the door frame, observing him for a silent moment, taking in his slightly hunched shoulders and his dark hair where the first threads of silver were appearing. He must have felt her eyes on him, because he looked over his shoulder and gave her a smile.

“How was your day?” he asked her once she settled next to him.

“The usual.” she replied and he frowned lightly, most likely worried by the weariness even she could hear in her own voice.

“I'm tired, is all.” she told him in answer to his silent question and Klaus sneaked an arm around her waist, drawing her closer.

Gretchen leaned into him, feeling the pleasant warmth of his body on her back, while the land breeze tangled in her damp hair. They stood like that for the longest time and she felt her eyes begin to close.

“What about your day?” she inquired after a while, wondering sleepily at all the possible inquisition and mischief the boys could have come up with.

“Anything remarkable happening?” she asked Klaus.

And for the briefest moment her husband stiffened.

“Nothing particular.” he told her evenly, but Gretchen felt suddenly very cold.

After fifteen years together she knew when he was lying.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Do you” by Carina Round.


	4. You stumble in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doubts, memories and sand-castles.

 

The coffee Balin was sipping was too strong for his taste, but he drank it nonetheless, observing Gretchen who was buttering a slice of bread for Markus. She had been very silent that morning and her usually rosy cheeks were pale. He frowned, worried she was working herself too hard.

Balin knew how exhausting it was to dig under the scorching Mediterranean sun, surrounded only by dirt and stones that radiated heat after baking in the sunlight. He had participated to a fair share of excavations in all the years he and Gretchen had been together. And while he knew she was a strong and resilient woman – and he admired her for it – Balin knew even she had her limits, and he was concerned.

But he didn't ask her if she was all right. Experience had taught him that even when she was running a viciously high fever Gretchen would insist she was fine and stubbornly keep working, annoyed at him for thinking her frail. The only way to aid her had always been to quietly ease her burdens giving her time to rest.

She had finished spreading the jam over the butter and Markus was messily trying to eat it, a smudge of apricot jam already on his nose and chin.

“Are we going to the beach today?” Georg, who had just finished eating inquired.

“If Markus agrees, yes.” Balin replied and watched with amusement the younger boy nod vigorously while he tried to swallow his food.

“Well, then, the beach it is.” he told their eldest son and Georg beamed at him.

“Is mama coming too?” he inquired and Balin cast a quick look in his wife's direction.

“I have to work, Georg.” she replied seriously and the boy looked at her in solemn understanding “I'm afraid I can't.”

Georg set to drink his cup of milk with a slightly disappointed expression and Balin felt sorry for the boy whose love for the sea was second only to geography. Balin recalled the endless hours he had spent with Georg pouring over an atlas and explaining to him which place was which, the distances and heights, and describing the places he had seen.

He and Gretchen had travelled a lot before Georg had been born. Between both their professions it had been necessary even, to do so. Balin's doctorate alone - which had been a comparative anthropological study of the concept of reincarnation in several cultures of the Himalayan zone – had required almost a year of travelling across Northern India, Nepal, Pakistan and Tibet. And Gretchen had come along.

“What about Sunday?” Georg's voice drew Balin from his memories and he turned his eyes towards the boy “You don't work on Sundays.”

Their son's voice was hopeful and Balin watched his wife's conflicting thoughts flash in her face. He knew she wanted to spend as much time as she could with them, but on the other hand he also knew she had no love for the sea.

“You are correct.” she told Georg and the boy's blue eyes lit up in hope.

“You are coming to the beach then?” he inquired earnestly.

“Your mother may have other plans for the day after tomorrow.” Balin cut in diplomatically, giving Gretchen an opening to excuse herself from it.

Georg pouted and Markus mimicked his brother, face half-coated in jam.

“Please, mama.” the latter said, widening his brown eyes and Balin saw her yield.

“Fine, I'll see what I can do.” she told them but the boys both knew it was a yes and their grins were worth the discomfort of going to the beach in the first place.

Gretchen shook her head at their antics, knowing full well they had half-manipulated her into accepting and she downed her glass of orange juice.

“I have to go.” she announced and excused herself, getting up from the chair with a slight wave of dizziness that was no doubt her low blood pressure acting up once again because of the heat.

Klaus gave her a worried frown, noticing no doubt her hand gripping the edge of the table to steady herself while the spell washed away.

“I'll see you tonight.” she told her family, kissing the boys' foreheads and walking out of the dining room with a stride.

She hadn't properly bid Klaus goodbye – not like she customarily did – but the resentment from the previous night still lingered and she couldn't bring herself to pretend. It was not in her nature.

She knew it was unfair from her part to act in such a way towards Klaus without an explanation – he deserved to know if she was angry with him – but at the same time the reason for her behaviour was Klaus himself withholding something from her.

She had lay awake that night, eyes fixed on the dark ceiling above while her mind had ran in an absurd circle, unable to think about anything other than the fact her husband - who had been blissfully sleeping by her side - had lied to her.

She had been so tired and had nearly fallen asleep there on the balcony, wrapped in her husband's arms. Until Klaus had answered a very innocent question with a lie – and she had known it as such because after a decade and a half by his side she had witnessed his skill in dodging conversations he was unwilling to have with a diplomacy and an ability to tell half-truths that had made her think more than once what an excellent politician he could have been.

But they had never lied to each other. Gretchen unlocked their Volkswagen's door and got in. They had always struggled to be honest with one another – and if that made her feel like a hypocrite, Gretchen chose to ignore it for the time being, knowing deep down she would have liked nothing better than to be able to tell her husband about her past life, to confirm most of his anthropological interpretations with an empiric proof of rebirth. Her own.

But she couldn't and Gretchen had long accepted that fact.

What she couldn't accept was the helplessness she felt when faced with whatever unknown bothered her husband to such a degree he resorted to lying. It was frustrating to the degree she almost wished to stride inside the dining room and demand the truth, whatever it may be.

But she didn't. Not yet.

She turned the ignition key. The engine rumbled to life and she drove out of the driveway, turning the radio on. The sound of a woman's voice reciting the news in a fast-spoken Italian filled the car and Gretchen reached to the accessory pocket, randomly picking an audio cassette and putting it in the player. A moment later one of Beethoven's sonatas was reverberating in the air. It was one of her husband's cassettes.

  


A fly was buzzing irritably around the room, stopping every now and then before it resumed its frantic flight over the air. Alberto observed it idly from the bed where he was lying sprawled atop the covers. He had done his duties that morning and instead of using the rest of the morning to go to the beach or to work in the garden, he had locked himself in his bedroom, staring at nothing in particular while he tried to make sense of the things Mr. Weber – Mr. _Balin,_ he corrected himself – had told him the day before

After the professor had left along with his son, Alberto had sat unmoving for the longest time, his mind dazed. Before he had been able to even begin thinking about the enormity of that revelation, his father had needed his assistance with potential guests and the rest of the day had flown by.

He had performed his tasks on autopilot, unable to properly concentrate on anything and when night had come he had been so exhausted and on the verge of a headache, his body had collapsed into fitful slumber, filled by dreams of running through dank tunnels with bare feet flapping on the stone close behind him. Just as he had managed to escape his hunter, he had emerged in a large hall, filled with overhanging passages and endless staircases, and he was being chased again in the dry, suffocating air of a place he dreaded and loathed at the same time.

When he had awoken it had been to utter confusion and for a moment Bilbo had been befuddled at the sight of the pale sky that had greeted him from behind the mosquito net on the window, before he remembered his name was Alberto, not Bilbo.

Or not?

He had been... he had _been_ Bilbo once, the German guest he had talked to had told him so and Alberto had felt bewildered and torn between the bone deep feeling Mr. Weber was right and the rational knowledge it was impossible.

Death was definitive. Hadn't he seen his mother die in a hospital room, unconsciously exhaling her last ragged breath as the machines had begun to ear-piercingly beep?

The notion that he had lived before, that he had been reborn was inane.

And yet, as Alberto lay on top of his bed-covers, watching the lone fly circle the expanse of his bedroom's ceiling, he couldn't escape the fact everything Mr. Balin – or Weber or whoever he was – felt right. He had recognised the story he had overheard, the name he had used for one of the dwarves – Bofur – and the names he had used for Alberto and himself...

_Dwarves?_

He jolted upright in his bed as his mind registered the thought. Why did he think of those people as dwarves? Why would he think such a crazy thing? Dwarves were fantastical creatures. They weren't real...

Suddenly Alberto had a vivid flash of a memory of a very tall man, but just as he pictured him he knew it was not _his_ height which was unnatural. The room began to spin. No, it was Alberto's – Bilbo's – own height which was freakishly short in comparison. Just like his companions'. The dwarves.

But... but, it made no sense! It was not possible.

None of it was possible.

He pressed his fingers on his temples, feeling the harbingers of a headache cut through the barrage of images that assaulted his mind. Long, groomed beards. Axes and swords, so sharp. A strong slap on his shoulder which nearly sent him flying on the floor. The smell of strong pipe-weed. Fear of the thick darkness under the canopy of ominous looking trees. The metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Booming laughter. The swish of arrow. Wind in his hair as the world grew small and smaller underneath him.

Strong fingers on his neck, choking him and blue, cold eyes staring at him.

His hands flew to his throat and he inhaled a ragged breath. His heart was beating fast, frantic in his ears and Alberto – Bilbo – shook his head, trying to banish all the images that lurked on the edges of his consciousness, pushing their way to the forefront of his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought of his mother, who would sing him lullabies when he had been small and the occasional nightmare plagued his sleep.

Nightmares that his mind conjured vividly now, sharp teeth and black blood.

_Ninna nanna a sette e venti, il mio pupo s'addormenti._

His mother would sing and the orcs - _what is an orc?_ \- would vanish from his mind, but now the images flashed on the back of his lids. The bright blue glow of a blade. Cold, freezing ice under his feet. And the faint sound of steel clashing on steel.

_S'addormenta e fa un bel sonno e si sveglia domani a giorno._

Somewhere in the chaos of limbs and screams and the thud of a lifeless body hitting the ground, dull golden hair spread over the dirty white of snow, his mother's voice echoed and he grabbed his pillow, hugging it tightly.

_Nanna oggi, nanna ieri e le sporte non son panieri._

_E i panieri non son le sporte e la vita non è la morte._

Death, so much death. And the realisation those were memories, not nightmares. No, not nightmares at all. He clenched the pillow in his hands. Those pale blue lifeless eyes staring back at him belonged to someone he had known, someone he had... His breath caught painfully in his throat as the memory of a deep voice mingled with his mother's.

_E la morte non è la vita, la canzone l' è ormai finita._

There were tears streaming down his cheeks, swallowed by the cotton of the pillowcase.

_Farewell Master Burglar. Go back to your books..._

No. He shook his head vehemently, choking back a sob. No. It wasn't real.

_I wish to part in friendship._

But it was, wasn't it. How could it hurt so much if it weren't real? How could it resemble so much the pain he had felt when his mother's agony had ended? When they had presented her to his father and him, cleaned, with her hair brushed and no more tubes sticking from her arm? Why did thinking about those icy blue eyes evoke the same breathless pain, the same feeling of emptiness?

And whom they had belonged, those eyes?

  


Balin was sitting on one of the reclining chairs in the garden, reading a novel he had purchased in a small bookshop in the centre of Grado. The book was in Italian and Balin struggled with the language, consulting the dictionary much too often to be able to enjoy the plot of the novel, but he wasn't reading it for the plot. He wanted to perfect his meagre knowledge of the language and so he had chosen an Italian translation of Goethe, which should have eased his understanding, since he had read the novel more than once.

The boys were taking their afternoon nap and he was enjoying a moment of quiet, relaxing in the shade of the large pine tree that grew in the bed and breakfast's garden. He had just turned a painfully read page when he heard the faint sound of footsteps and he lifted his head.

Bilbo was approaching him silently and Balin noted there were dark circles under his eyes that betrayed a restless night or more. He had not seen the youth ever since that afternoon two days ago when they had briefly talked in the dining room, but had elected not to seek him out until he was ready to talk.

“Mr. Balin.” he greeted politely “Would you have a minute to spare? I would like to continue our conversation, if possible.”

“Of course, laddie.” Balin replied, gesturing for Bilbo to take a seat in the reclining chair nearby and the youth complied, his mouth set in a thin line.

“I... well, I was wondering if you could tell me who I was.” he said, fidgeting with his hands “I don't recall much. Just snippets of memories really and I don't... I don't know who I was and what I have done. But there are terrible things I remember and I don't...”

“Easy now, lad.” Balin said “I knew you in our past lives. I should think we considered each other friends. But I cannot tell you who you were. That is something only you know.”

“But can't you at least explain to me what are those horrible memories?” he asked earnestly “I keep recalling a battle and people who died. People I cared about. But I don't know them. I can't remember.”

There were frustration and grief in his voice and Balin felt a sorrow he had deeply buried resurface. He knew what the lad was talking about. Of course he would remember _that_ first. It was only natural, given all that had come to pass.

“The Battle of the Five Armies” he said quietly, grief burdening his voice “That is what you remember. And those who had fallen had been Thorin and his nephews Fíli and Kíli.”

Bilbo's heart raced. He _knew_ those names. Fili was the golden hair that whipped in the fall, spreading like a fan around his unmoving head, but also a mischievous smile under a braided moustache. Kili was a red-haired woman mourning over a lifeless body and an enthusiastic grin that lit up his face.

And Thorin... Thorin were a pair of piercingly blue eyes, looking at him in the agony of death. A deep baritone that felt like velvet when he spoke and sent shivers up his spine when he sung. An eyebrow cocked in wryness and a smirk that could become a smile. But seldom. So seldom.

But Thorin were also strong unyielding fingers digging in the skin of his neck and Bilbo's eyes widened as he looked at Balin without seeing him.

“Bilbo.” the older man's voice called him and he forced himself to draw away from that horrible memory.

How could someone make his heart race and fear crawl down his spine at the same time?

“You...” he began, but his throat was dry and the words stuck “Could you tell me the story you were telling your children the day before yesterday?”

“I think it would be better if you allowed the memories to come back on their own, laddie.” Balin told him, worried about the paleness of his cheeks and the vice-like grip with which the youth was holding the armrest of the reclining chair.

If just telling him three names had had that effect on him, Balin had to wonder what hearing the whole story could do to him.

“Please.” he said, eyeing him in determination “I need to understand.”

  


The sun was shining brightly, warming Balin's damp skin and he took a gulp of lukewarm water to wash away the salt from his tongue. He observed his children nearby. Markus was running in the shallow water, his tiny feet sinking in the grey sand and losing their footing every now and then, while Georg was sitting nearby, intent on piling the same sand and building something which had the ambition of becoming a castle no doubt, but for now was only a pile of mud. There was a little frown of concentration on the boy's forehead and Balin smiled.

Gretchen was emerging from the sea, after a perfunctory swim, her long yellow hair slick on her scalp and droplets of seawater streaming in rivulets down her skin. She beamed at their children's antics and Balin couldn't help thinking her beautiful, with her soft curves and bright blue eyes.

Markus ran towards her, screaming in greeting, and she deftly lifted the boy in her arms, pressing a kiss on his cheek while he clung to her. The two of them made their way to the towels where Balin was sitting. She sat down and Markus scooted over to him, climbing into his lap.

“'tory, papa.” he demanded and Balin eyed him with a sternness he didn't feel.

“It's not story time yet, Markus.” he reprimanded him gently and the boy pouted.

“Markus, come help me.” Georg said and Balin suspected he wanted to prevent his brother from nagging for the next episode of the tale.

A tale Balin had been telling to both his children and Bilbo now, although the boys didn't know that. There were events he had chosen to withhold from them, but had a duty to tell Bilbo about.

Both his audiences were rather eager to hear the tale, but his children, had learned long ago that the more they insisted the longer they would have to wait for the story. And the tale of the Quest was one they were most eager to hear.

“I don't want.” Markus protested.

“Yes you do.” Georg replied cheekily “Come, I'm making the mountain.”

“The mount'tin?” the younger boy said, interest suddenly perked “'Ebor?”

“ _Er_ ebor” his brother corrected with a knowledgeable attitude “You can play the dragon if you want.”

Balin huffed a bitter-sweet chuckle, giving a sideways glance to his wife who had been silent throughout the whole exchange.

And saw her stare at him with her eyes wide in bewilderment.

“Erebor?” she said and her voice nearly cracked “The... the dragon?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed I put the rating to Mature. I am not sure about the descriptions of death in this chapter and I'd like to stay on the safe side. Censorship and my muse do not go along. :)
> 
> Translations:  
> Ninna nanna a sette e venti, il mio pupo s'addormenti. - Lullaby at seven twenty let my baby fall asleep.  
> S'addormenta e fa un bel sonno e si sveglia domani a giorno. - Falls asleep and has a good sleep and wakes up tomorrow at day-break.  
> Nanna oggi, nanna ieri e le sporte non son panieri. / E i panieri non son le sporte e la vita non è la morte. - Lullaby today, lullaby yesterday and (shopping) baskets are not (bread) baskets / and (bread) baskets are not (shopping) baskets and life is not death.  
> E la morte non è la vita, la canzone l'è ormai finita. - And death is not life, the song is already finished.
> 
> Note: This is a traditional Italian lullaby that has many different variations. I chose the one that seemed more plausible to me given the region of Italy where Bilbo/Alberto has been born. Note that it has dialectal forms and words which are not standard Italian.
> 
> Chapter title taken from “Teardrop” by Massive Attack.


	5. But I don't know who to trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long overdue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There should be only one more chapter to go in this fic.  
> Thank you for your support. :)

The sun was piercing her pupils. Bright dots began to dance in her vision, but Gretchen did not break her gaze on Klaus. He was looking back at her with a frown of confusion that held a tinge of worry. Faintly she registered the children's enthusiastic chatter in the background, but her mind was focused solely on the words Georg had uttered a moment before.

“How...” her mouth formed the syllable out of its own volition as her mind replayed her son's words – Erebor, the dragon “How is it possible they know about it?”

Gretchen's voice was barely audible when she spoke next, but Balin heard his wife's voice distinctly

“How can they know about the Lonely Mountain?” and he felt his eyes widen in a bewilderment greater than the one he had experienced a week before when he had ran into Bilbo Baggins.

_How can they know about the Lonely Mountain?_

Gretchen's voice echoed in his head while hundreds of hypotheses coursed through his mind. Hundreds of explanations for Gretchen knowing about Erebor, explanations that ranged from the wildest to the silliest. But none of them answered Balin's question.

She couldn't have heard it from him - he had never spoken of it before starting to tell the tale of the Quest to his children. And she sounded bewildered by the fact the boys knew about it.

So she must have known beforehand. But how? How could she when only Balin - and Bilbo, but the lad had barely any memory of it - when only he knew about it. How could Gretchen know? Unless...

No, he shook his head. Balin could not even begin to fathom let alone believe it. It was absurd. Not to mention the notion itself would have the power to make all he had ever known – all he thought about his wife – collapse. But what if it wasn't? Absurd, that is.

Gretchen was still looking at him completely dumbstruck, but expecting an answer nonetheless and he found himself at loss.

Bilbo had been reincarnated, was it so impossible to think his wife could have been too? It was a wild thought and yet it made perfect sense. A very mad sense.

“I told them.” he finally replied to her question, eyeing her strangely and Gretchen felt the sounds get muffled to a dull buzz as Klaus' words registered.

She almost physically felt the wheels of her mind turn and grind her as a realisation settled on her mind like a boulder. A realisation that was far too large for her to accept, but which brought an answer to all the questions she had posed herself and suddenly all the bits and pieces she should have put together long ago forced themselves into place.

“You.” she breathed, with steel in her voice “You've been reborn.”

How hadn't she seen it before? Hadn't his works always been uncannily accurate? Hadn't he always surprised Gretchen with his insights on rebirth? Insights he shouldn't have had. And the fact itself that he single-mindedly focused his research on reincarnation when he had had many opportunities to expand it to other aspect of the eastern cultures he studied, it should have been a clue. Like the way they had always gotten along, sharing the same principles, which were not dissimilar to most people's, but were still peculiar – the value of kin, of work, the pride...

 

She should have realised it sooner.

“You've been reborn” she repeated and her voice held an edge of something hard which was mirrored in the shift of her shoulders and the straightness of her neck. Her eyes were guarded and Balin watched her, suspended in the moment.

“Yes.” he replied quietly.

She shook her head, the confirmation of her thoughts too heavy to bear. It was a quake that shook the foundations of her being – the knowledge she had spent fifteen years by the side of a man who wasn't who she had thought him to be. Who was a stranger.

It was a smothering knowledge and Gretchen felt the need to shout out her outrage, to demand an explanation from her husband. The words burned on her tongue, but she bit them back for the sake of their children – who were obliviously building a mountain of sand. Her fingers closed around the soft fabric of the towel while she bit back all she wanted to say.

Her eyes were blazing and she seemed ready to leap. Balin observed with an odd detachment the fury painting on her visage and a small spark of irritation burst into life within him and his lips pursed. He had been torturing himself for so long with the guilt of withholding his true identity from her. He had spent so many nights sleeplessly chewing himself over the breach in the trust she put in him. He had felt a villain for it. Only to find out she had done the same.

It wasn't in his nature to vocalise it, but watching her seethe in burdened silence made him want to call her a hypocrite, to tell her just how hard it had been for him. To tell her he felt betrayed. But he didn't. Setting his mouth in a thin line he merely watched her. Silent.

Suddenly she rose to her feet, grabbing her beach dress and hastily putting it on, ignoring the wet patches that appeared on the fabric as it came in contact with her bathing suit. Gretchen needed to get out of there before she made a scene, she needed to remove herself from the scorching hot sand under her feet and the taste of salt on her lips. From Klaus. Or whoever he was.

“Mama?” Georg's voice beckoned her “Where are you going?”

He was sitting next to his brother, a bright red plastic shovel clutched in his small hand and she tried her utmost to school her features when she lied to him

“I have forgotten there was something I need to do for work.” the words trickled out of her mouth with a bitter taste in their wake.

“Oh.” Georg said with disappointment and her rage blazed higher at the thought that she had been brought in the position to sadden her children.

The small voice within her that shyly defended her husband saying she had done the same as him got smothered by the flames of her temper and it promised remorse, but at the moment the only thing she could do was stride away from the beach and towards the bed and breakfast, ignoring the dizziness that took hold of her once again.

  


The roses had blossomed to a beautiful pink and Bilbo snapped his garden scissors over a stem, adding another flower to the fragrant bouquet he had been making for the vase on the reception desk. He had always liked a bit of colour, a bit of nature inside the house - it made everything cosier and more like a real home. There was a great value in comfort and Bilbo cherished it.

Three more roses followed and humming in satisfaction with the result he turned back towards the building, leaving the garden tools by the back door and making sure he cleaned the soles of his sandals lest he trod dirt into the hallway.

He had just made it to the desk when the front door burst open and a visibly upset Mrs. Bauer-Weber strode in with her yellow hair still damp.

“Is everything all right, madam?” he inquired politely, worried by her disarrayed state.

She snapped her head in his direction, like she had noticed him just then.

“Yes, Mr. Sartori.” she replied tersely, but Bilbo recognised it as a lie. He bit back a retort, politeness dictating he should not bother her further, even if she made him feel concerned.

“If you need anything, you know where to find me.” he offered and she nodded distractedly, heading for the stairs.

Bilbo frowned once her back was to him. Mr. Balin's wife had seemed such a composed woman, steady as a secular tree. To see her so upset worried him greatly, but it was not his place to be nosy. He had already imposed on the German professor's goodwill enough.

He sighed as he remembered how he had forced the other man to recount to Bilbo the events that had come to pass in their past lives, in spite of the pain that Bilbo could read on his good-natured face..

A pain Bilbo shared.

He put the flowers inside the vase and poured some water inside it from a plastic pitcher he had brought beforehand. Bilbo arranged the flowers and took a couple of steps back to admire his handiwork. He liked things to be orderly and nice – he always had. It made him feel like everything in the universe was in it its rightful place.

He knew objectively it wasn't so. There were many things that were out of place – like the fact he had been reborn for instance – but he liked to perpetrate the illusion of order in defiance of the chaos that always lurked behind the corner. He had always been like that, concerned with the small things he could control and keep the fear at bay.

But it wasn't all there was to him, was it?

He shifted a rose to the right, pushing it towards the centre to make the arrangement seem more balanced. There had always been another current within him. A strong one that made him want to throw all order to the wind and simply live in the moment. Seize it. But Bilbo had always tried to keep it toned down.

At least in this life.

He sat down heavily on one of the padded chairs that were placed by the window and flanked a small table filled with newspapers and magazines.

If Mr. Balin's words were to be trusted – and they were, he _knew_ they were – Bilbo had forsaken all cautiousness in his past life and done the one thing he had always ached to do deep within – have an adventure.

Mr. Balin's tale of it had not gotten far, barely at the beginning of it, but Bilbo felt the excitement course through him nonetheless.

The last they had spoken – the previous afternoon – the other man had just finished describing the gathering of the dwarves in Bilbo's erstwhile home and as the older man's voice had captivated his attention, Bilbo's mind had begun to supply him with vivid images of all the events Mr Balin had been telling him about. Faces had emerged from the grey haze of oblivion, with large noses and even larger beards in which braids and beads had been woven. Raucous laughter had resounded in the echo of the memories, along with the tune of a song that had made his stomach twist in a mixture of longing and the echo of an age old annoyance.

It was still very fragmented, in spite of Mr. Balin's recounting and Bilbo wished he could properly remember everything. There was such a confusing chaos of emotions inside him which he struggled to understand – along with the gargantuan struggle of making peace with the fact he had been reborn in the first place.

The thought of having lived before made him dizzy – the idea of having had a different body, different parents, having _died_. He shook his head. The more Bilbo thought about it, the more overwhelming it become.

It seemed almost impossible at times to reconcile himself, the nineteen years old Alberto Sartori with Bilbo Baggins and yet, he knew deep within him it was an absolute truth. He _was_ Bilbo Baggins, more than he had ever been Alberto – the oblivious teenager who had always been too mature for his own good, too _old_. But Bilbo, Bilbo was whom he truly was.

If only he could remember himself.

  


Balin ushered his sons to their room after he had thoroughly dried them with the pristine white towels they had been provided with. Both boys were completely exhausted from the long hours spent on the beach until the sun had begun its descent towards the sea, tingeing the sky a bright pink that had faded to a deep violet.

After having gathered their belongings Balin had led the boys towards the pizzeria where Gretchen and him had decided to have dinner that evening, but his wife hadn't been there and Balin had felt something cold settle in his stomach. He had been irritated with her before, but as the hours had trickled by under the merciless sun a strange numbness had taken over him growing slowly into a spark of curiosity.

He had known they needed to talk, he had known the whole afternoon while he had supervised his sons, but her absence at dinner had made Balin wonder about things he had never wondered about before and nameless fears had gripped him, all but banishing any appetite he might had had. But the boys had been famished and so, after fifteen minutes of futile waiting for their mother to come and a perfunctory excuse from Balin for her absence, they had eaten.

Georg slithered under the covers, yawning widely, but Markus was wide awake, looking at Balin with his big eyes wide in expectation. Balin would have wished to do any number of things rather that telling the tale of the Quest in that moment, especially when all he could think about was Gretchen's face when Georg had mentioned Erebor. But he had a duty to his children, so he sat himself down on the youngest boy's bed and said

“I have quite forgotten where I had stopped my tale.” he smiled, winking at his eldest son who grinned sleepily.

“The Company had gotten on the barge.” he said “To Laketown.”

“Oh, well then, laddies, you are in for one of the strangest journeys...” he began and pushing down all his turmoil, all his worry, he told his sons the almost comical way the Company had entered first Laketown and later Bard's own house.

And as he recounted the look of displeasure on his burly brother's face Balin couldn't help being caught up in the mirth of the memory, forgetting for a moment about Gretchen's furious face and the feeling of betrayal that tainted his thoughts.

  


A mosquito buzzed above her head and Gretchen's hand flicked it away idly. She lay on the bed, like she had been doing for most of the afternoon. After returning from the beach and taking a shower the dizziness had not receded, but rather increased and Gretchen had forced herself to lay still, while a storm inside her raged. She had wanted to pace around the room while she put order in her thoughts, she had wanted to face her husband and demand an explanation. And as the afternoon turned into evening she had merely wanted to get out of the confines of their room and join her family for dinner. But her body had rebelled.

It was admittedly a very hot day and there wasn't a single breath of wind to stir the heavy air, but it was still an uncanny dizziness. The door creaked open and it interrupted her thoughts on how seldom she experienced such an ailment like the one that was currently having her stare at the ceiling. Her husband's footsteps marked his entrance and she listened to him move around the room with her lips pursed. She didn't know how to act around him and the fuzziness of her mind took the edge off her rage.

“Gretchen.” he said in lieu of a greeting and she turned her eyes to him.

His eyes were guarded and in spite of all the things she wished to tell him, only the cold numb feeling in the pit of her stomach that came from the realisation she did not know the man she was married to, remained.

“Who are you?” she asked him without preamble, lifting herself on her elbows while the ceiling spun for a moment.

Klaus looked at her intensely, before he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Balin son of Fundin.” he said “Advisor to King Thorin II and briefly Lord of Khazad-Dûm.”

She blinked. _King_ Thorin? Hadn't he been the second in line for the throne? And Khazad-Dûm... She shook her head, pushing down the curiosity that arose at her husband's words. She wanted to know – naturally, she was curious by default – but now was not the time, not when the fact itself Klaus – no, _Balin_ – had been reborn was hard for her to accept. She tethered between numbness and anger and when she spoke her own voice sounded flat to her.

“I was Dóta daughter of Duf.” she told him “I died the day the dragon came.”

Her husband's eyes suddenly lost all the hardness and there was an unreadable sadness in them that seemed too much like pity to her to be able to stand it. And it tipped the scales, making her anger flare once again, over all the dizziness and fatigue. A part of her knew it was irrational, but Gretchen felt all the bottled up irritation rekindle and she suddenly needed air, she needed things to make sense, she needed to get up from that bed.

Fighting the light-headedness that assaulted her she got up to her feet. She wanted to get out of that room, but at the same time she did not want to flee like she had done that afternoon. But the four walls of that room made her feel caged and the floor felt unsteady under her feet. All the spinning made her stomach feel queasy and it was without thinking that her feet carried her towards the bathroom.

The door slammed closed and Balin watched the dark wood while his mind raced, filing away all he had learned and trying to make sense of his wife's behaviour. He understood her anger, in a way. He had lied to her and that was bound to irk her. She had always valued honesty above all.

But she hadn't been honest herself. _She_ hadn't told him about her rebirth either.

And yet, as he kept gazing at the wood of the bathroom door, he couldn't blame her for it. He knew full well the reasons she might had had for lying to him – for they were his own. It was that which had made his irritation ebb throughout the day, even if he hadn't rationalised it until now.

Suddenly the sound of something breaking made him snap out of his thoughts and he jumped to his feet, walking to the bathroom door.

“Gretchen?” he inquired worriedly, his hand already on the doorknob.

“I'm fine.” came the muffled reply, but something in his wife's voice left Balin unconvinced and he opened the door.

Gretchen was sitting on the white tiles of the floor, one hand gripping the edge of the sink where the broken remnants of the glass they used to rinse their mouth with lay jagged. One of the straps of her nightgown had fallen down her sunburnt shoulder and face was very pale.

“Are you well?” he inquired with bated breath, dropping to his knees in front of her and gingerly taking hold of her other hand which was lying flat on the the floor tiles.

“I told you I'm fine.” she replied irritably but her heart wasn't in it, then she added defeated “I just feel faint.”

At the sight of her pallor all his thoughts about the past had vanished all that mattered was that she needed him.

“Let me get you to the bed.” he said circling an arm around her waist and hoisting her to her feet.

Her hand gripped the fabric of his shirt while she leaned on him.

“I don't know what came over me.” she said “I haven't felt like this since...”

Her voice trailed as her eyes widened. He put her down on the bed and she hastily opened the bedside drawer, rummaging through the assembled items she had crammed inside it, until her hand emerged with her small agenda.

“It can't be.” she breathed, while she began shuffling through the pages with a frown, muttering incoherent things.

He didn't even have the time to begin wondering about what she was looking for before she suddenly she stopped turning the pages and looked up at him, her blue eyes incredibly wide.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Devils & Dust” by Bruce Springsteen.


	6. There is a truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so this fic ends. I hope you had enjoyed reading is as much as I had enjoyed writing it and I thank you for your support, it has been precious to me. :)  
> More stories are coming in the [Souls](http://archiveofourown.org/series/256492) series, so stay tuned for the next instalment (not to mention the usual updates of [Lonely souls](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3863302/chapters/8631286), which in turn does not seem to want to end any time soon, but blame it on the characters. :p).  
> Well, on with it then.

Gretchen felt the world spin under her body, half-sitting on the bed. She felt herself float with no anchor in the gaping emptiness and it had nothing to do with the dizziness she had been feeling only minutes prior. The small faux leather agenda slipped form her fingers, soundlessly falling on the somewhat crumpled sheets of the bed. She looked at her husband - Klaus, or was it Balin? _Did it matter?_ \- and felt the words get stuck, thickly glued to the roof of her mouth.

He was about to speak, she could see it in the parting of his lips, soundless - or were her ears that had drowned in the buzzing that filled them? His bespectacled dark brown eyes held a look of worry and she shook her head, willing him not to speak yet, not before she found a balance point in the bad rock and rubble of her mind.

_Why now?_ She couldn't understand it and yet at the same time Gretchen knew there _wasn't_ anything to understand. It was mathematical probability - or fate - but regardless of it, it was something beyond her universal need to comprehend, whether she liked it or not. Acceptance was the only way - or defiance, but that was not an option at all for her, not when it concerned her children - but still she couldn't help marvelling at how everything seemed to have come to a head at the same time.

It could have almost been ironic, if Gretchen had had it in her to look at it from such an angle - that they should be having another child in the same strained moment of their marriage, the first one in fifteen years of relationship in which they had encountered an obstacle that might be insurmountable. But irony tasted like sand on her tongue and Gretchen's thoughts were falling freely.

"Gretchen, what is it?" her husband inquired with far less calm in his voice than she was accustomed hearing and it drew her out of the maze of her brain processes, back to their room and the faint sound of crickets coming from the open balcony doors.

"Do you need me to call a doctor?" he asked.

"No." she replied, shaking her head "There is no need."

He frowned, taking hold of her hand and in spite of the boulders which had tumbled down between them, nearly crushing them with the feelings of betrayal and anger, Gretchen let him. She took a deep breath before her eyes lifted from the sight of their entwined hands and rose to meet his.

"I think I may be pregnant again." she told him simply and watched his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Are you sure?" he asked with cautious hope twinkling in his eyes and Gretchen shook her head again.

"I'll need a test and I should see Dr. Dietrich once we return home." she told him, knowing there was still a small margin of doubt in spite of the harbingers being all there.

After two children Gretchen had very little doubt. The faintness, the mood changes, the fatigue and the queasiness of her stomach - not to mention the calendar speaking clearly, she was nearly three weeks late - they were all things she was familiar with and which she should have noticed before.

It wasn't doubt on her pregnancy that burdened her - nor the notion itself, for that part, she had always wanted to have as many children as they were able to, the memory of being the fourth sibling and the umpteenth cousin in a large family when she had been Dóta still rung pleasantly with the sound of laughter and the warming knowledge of belonging to a kin.

No, what bothered Gretchen was everything else, the revelations of that afternoon - _had it been only several hours?_ \- and what that would mean in the long run for her family. _Their_ family.

It all felt too soon, to raw, too unexpected. When she had woken up that morning she had thought she had known who the man peacefully lying next to her in slumber had been, regardless of her anger for his lie or his strange moods. But the man who had risen to his feet and was currently pacing the length of their bedroom was a stranger in way. _Wasn't he?_

His pace was slow and he shook his slightly greying head every now and then. She felt overwhelmed by her own thoughts. It was too much, much too much, and her body screamed for rest, for a couple of hours of silence from her mind. For the peace she had always taken for granted.

Klaus stopped in his pacing and gave her a long measuring look that made her feel under scrutiny and she looked back, not one to yield, never. After a while he broke his gaze and his shoulders slumped before he sat back down on the bed next to her.

"Why did you never tell me about your past _Dóta_?" he asked quietly and there was no accusation in his voice, just weary concern and a tinge of curiosity.

"Gretchen." she corrected him "Dóta died aeons ago. I am Gretchen."

He frowned, but nodded his head.

"I wanted to." she admitted "I have thought about it many times, but I reckoned you'd not take me seriously. Or think I have lost my mind."

And it was the truth, simple and harsh. Klaus nodded again, giving her a small, but earnest smile.

"I'm afraid my own motives are no different from yours." he told her and she closed her eyes, exhaling. When she opened them again she shook her head feeling the beginning of a wry smile curving her lips.

"How did we not see this?" she asked, gesturing with her hand at the two of them and he mirrored her wry expression, only with more cautiousness.

"I don't know." Balin admitted honestly, looking at his wife.

Some colour had returned to her cheeks and he watched her lean back on the pillows, yellow hair slightly dishevelled. She was still shaking her head lightly, but Balin could see the weariness in her blue eyes. All hung still precariously in the air - dangerously - and he was unable to even begin making order in his thoughts, finding a sense to the sudden chaos all had descended into. But he didn't have the luxury of time to meditate on it. He needed to take it all in stride with the hope that bit by bit all be eventually fixed. He needed to move forward in spite of the hundreds of thoughts which sped through his mind. Gretchen needed him and it was all that mattered.

"You should get some sleep." he told her, getting up from the bed and she grabbed his wrist giving him a meaningful look.

"So should you." she rebutted "You haven't been sleeping properly in the past..."

Her eyes widened and Balin could see clearly the moment realisation hit her.

"Is _that_ what has had you behaving so strangely?" she inquired "Your rebirth?"

Balin almost opened his mouth to smooth the frown on her forehead, like he had done in the past months, telling her he had not been behaving strangely at all. But the words stopped behind his teeth. She had asked over and over, stubbornly, what was it that had bothered him and he had never told her it had been the gnawing guilt of deceiving her and their children. He had never been able to tell her.

But he could now. He _should._

It was the least he could do.

"Yes." he replied, bowing his head "I was lying to you, Gretchen. To the boys. My whole life has been nothing but a deception and I could not bear it. It felt wrong, but at the same time, what _could_ I do?"

Her eyes softened somewhat.

"I'm sorry." she told him and Gretchen didn't know what she was apologising for. For not seeing it sooner? For making her husband feel guilty? For lying to him the same way he had done? All she knew was that the contrite look Klaus was wearing was wrong on his visage.

"I'm sorry too." he replied.

  


The fan on the ceiling spun with a faint buzzing sound, making the slightly cooler air circulate through the dining room of the bed and breakfast. The shutters were closed to keep the heat of the sun out, but it helped little. The weather forecast had warned today might be one of the hottest days of the year and if the morning was any indication the skinny man on the Italian television was going to be proven right.

"Mama, aren't you working today?" Georg asked Gretchen when his mother made no move to rise from the chair like she had done every morning right after having finished her breakfast, hurrying to reach the archaeological site in time.

His son's voice was full of anticipation and his blue eyes were wide when she shook her head.

"I took a day off." she told Georg and his face split into a beaming smile which was soon mirrored on Markus' jam-smeared visage.

Balin took a napkin and began wiping away the cherry jam from the boy's cheeks. They were all nearly done with their breakfast and normally he and the boys would be on their way to putting on their swimsuits and go to the beach. But Gretchen was with them today and Balin wasn't sure it would be good for her to be out on that heat - after all _that_ had been his winning argument in convincing her to take a day off.

He remembered well how she had worked until late pregnancy both times before, but after nearly fainting the night before he preferred if she rested rather than going out to dig under the merciless Mediterranean sun - the same on which would be shining scorchingly on them if they went to the beach.

He cast a glance in Gretchen's direction and noted the pallor she had been sporting since the day before had not relented and with a sigh he turned in the boys' direction.

"How about we stay in the garden today?" he asked them and they looked at him in dismay.

"What about the beach, papa?" Georg protested, pouting "It's boring in the garden."

"Want 'ee beach." Markus joined his brother, big brown eyes torn between stubborn and pleading.

"What if I told you the story of the Quest?" he asked them shrewdly and the boys' riotous expressions immediately morphed into eagerness.

"Will the Company finally come to Erebor? Is the dragon still there?" Georg asked with unrestrained curiosity and Balin stifled a chuckle, answering cryptically

"Perhaps."

He looked in Gretchen's direction, gauging her reaction. They hadn't talked about their past lives after that conversation the night before and in a way Balin was grateful for it, needing time for all of it to sink in.

She was eyeing him with a small frown on her pale forehead and it took a moment for Balin to realise she knew absolutely nothing of the Quest. _She had died the day the dragon had come._ And the thought alone was horrible - so many had lost their lives that day, so many he had known, dwarrows he had sparred with, drunk with, discussed politics and history or simply enjoyed a a well earned smoke with. He blinked away the sudden ache at the memory and smiled wistfully.

"I'll tell you what, laddies, why don't we begin with telling your mama what the Quest is?" he asked the boys and Georg widened his eyes.

"You don't know?!" he exclaimed bemused, giving a very good impression of Gretchen's own way of dealing with unprepared students, which made the corners of her lips twitch in silent laughter and Balin released a breath he hadn't known he had been holding.

"I'm afraid I don't." she told their eldest son and his round face turned very serious and businesslike. He began explaining his mother just what Erebor was, his younger sibling joining him every now and then to remind him of something he had forgotten. Balin let the boys talk, listening with a strange bitter-sweet feeling to the tale he knew too well. Eventually they all rose from their seats and made their way towards the garden, the boys' bubbling voices a constant thread linking them together - a lifeline.

As the tale of the Quest itself finally began and Georg started to list the companions' names, Balin saw Gretchen's eyebrows shoot up. He gave her a lopsided smile. It was strange, truly uncanny to have her listen to _that_ particular tale and know it had been him - it had been the story of a defining part of his life.

It felt surreal to sit near her and try to imagine her as a dwarrowdam. He had no doubt she must had looked very much like her present self, the same way he - or Bilbo - had, but dry knowledge and vivid imagination was not the same. And Balin found himself eager to learn more about her.

It would take him time to make peace with the deception which mirrored his own that Gretchen had perpetrated, but in the wake of all which had transpired the evening before, the knowledge - or hope - their small family would grow larger, Balin wanted to mend the breach in their marriage. Move forward.

And meet the woman he had married eight years prior - truly know her while at the same time he let her see who he was. It would take him time, but as he listened to their children spin the tale of the Quest to an attentive Gretchen, he felt justified in hoping that time would be given to him.

There was still a future to look forward to.

Gretchen didn't know what to think. The children's smiling faces that morning had been enough to quell the sense of unease she had been feeling since she had woken up that morning - the sensation of floating above a field of sharp rock, waiting for the moment she would inevitably fall. She and Klaus had acted very tentatively around one another since the moment they had woken up and the occasional glances he sent her way felt oddly reassuring. And yet she could not help feeling it was all too much, too overwhelming. She needed to process it all.

She was sitting on the bench under the large pine tree in the garden, listening to the tale of the reclaiming of their homeland - of the mountain she had spent her whole albeit brief life in - and hearing such a story coming from the mouth of their children added to the sense of surrealism the whole day had been laced with so far.

It was a tale that seemed incredible to her, but one look into her husband's serious eyes told her it was nothing but the truth. And very likely there was much more than she was being told.

She shook her head slightly, banishing her thoughts and leaned back on the bench, carefully listening to the tale.

  


The curtain flew around the balcony door-frame as the evening breeze carried fresh air inside their bedroom. Balin lay on his back, watching the white fabric twist and twirl like it danced to a soundless tune. Gretchen's head was nested in the crook of his neck and he relished in the closeness of her body. Had it been just the night before that all had reached its inevitable apex?

He shook his head lightly without thinking and Gretchen looked up, her expression difficult to discern in the darkness of the room.

"You are thinking about yesterday." she said.

"I am." he admitted and she heaved a long sigh.

"Look." she began, propping herself on her elbow "I can tell you I am sorry once again and you can apologise in turn and we can keep doing it until we're both old and wrinkled."

"But I'd rather move on with our lives, especially if I'm right about the child. Besides, I never lingered in the past and I'm not going to start now." she said firmly and then she added "Which does not mean I don't want to know about your past life, though."

Balin nodded.

"I suppose you are right." he told her, truly meaning it, then he added. "I'll gladly tell you anything you wish to know and I would really like to know more about you."

"There isn't much to know." she told him "I died when I was young. I have not tales of adventures like yourself."

He chuckled wistfully, shaking his head.

"I'm interested nonetheless." he told her.

Then, feeling the beginning of a grin he added

"Speaking of adventures, there is someone I think you should properly meet."

  


The pine needles rustled in the merciful breeze that had begun blowing, giving some respite from the unbearable heat of the day before. The sun was high and scorching outside the shade of the tree, turning the paving stones of the path that led from the bed and breakfast to the old pine into a blinding white. Bilbo heard the sound of the door closing and he straightened his posture, putting away the novel he had been reading. The sharp smell of resin filled his nostrils and he breathed it while he waited for Mr. Balin to come.

He was eager to hear the tale of the next leg of the journey which he was still remembering only in snippets that made no sense at all most of the time, no matter how hard he struggled to understand them. To remember more.

He looked down at his hands, shaking his head. Why was it so hard to remember? Mr. Balin had told him he had remembered everything, the same way one remembers events which had taken place many years before. But Bilbo couldn't. Each brief image that flickered through him mind took a gargantuan effort of him and felt his headaches more often than he had before.

"Good afternoon, Bilbo." Mr. Balin's voice made him snap out of his reverie and he lifted his head only to feel a deep frown settle on his brow. The former Dwarf was standing in front of the bench where Bilbo was sitting, and next to him, eyeing him with curiosity was Mrs. Bauer-Weber.

"Good afternoon." he replied, not understanding the woman's presence there. And hadn't Mr. Balin just called him _Bilbo_ in front of her?

He rose to his feet, giving Mr. Balin a quizzical look.

"I trust you are acquainted with my wife." the older man said and Bilbo nodded politely, the turning to his wife "Bilbo and I had known each other for a very long time."

Bilbo's frown deepened, but good manners made him hold his tongue in check.

"He had been of vital importance in the reclaiming of Erebor." he told her and Gretchen looked at the shocked expression on the youth's face and marvelled at how could someone who appeared so delicate have done all the deeds her children and later Klaus had illustrated in the tale of the Quest.

He was fidgeting with his hands, his blue eyes wide in a strange bottled-up apprehension.

"So you had been the Halfling?" she asked the youth.

"I was not half of anything, thank you very much." he replied indignantly, then blinking twice he gave her an apologetic look.

"This must be confusing for you laddie. Allow me to explain" Klaus said contritely before sighing.

"My wife had been a dwarrowdam in her past life." he told the youth whose eyebrows rose even higher "And she had just learned, albeit very vaguely, the tale of the Quest."

His explanation was wonderfully vague and Gretchen nearly smiled at how he had wrought the truth into something else entirely. How he had managed to omit all which had pass in the past two days.

Bilbo blinked again, frowning. Mrs. Bauer-Weber had been reborn too?

He felt almost cheated. Why hadn't Mr. Balin told him so right away? Why had he kept it a secret? But than again, why _should_ he have told him? It was a fact that held no relevance to any of the conversations he they had had so far.

He shook his head, recalling his manners.

"Bilbo Baggins." he said "At your service."

He gave a small bow, the way he had done a lifetime before when Mr. Balin's burly mountain of a brother had knocked on his smial's door with his sturdy knuckle-duster and suddenly Bilbo recalled the sight of a small scratch in the green pain, but that had been long after, when he had returned. After it had all ended. After they had died...

"Dóta, daughter of Duf. At yours." the woman's voice mercifully drew him out of reverie.

"But please call me Gretchen." she added and he nodded.

"You said Mrs. Gretchen had been told the tale then." he said to Mr. Balin's, the turning his eyes to the blond woman he told her wryly "Well then, madam, you very likely know more about me than I do myself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Stay Alive” by José Gonzales.


End file.
